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More Than a Fairytale

Posted in Books!, C.S. Lewis, Hospitality, J.R.R. Tolkien, Misty British Isles, Scotland, The Inklings, The Royals, Uncategorized, tagged Avonlea Q Krueger, Bays of Harris, C.S. Lewis, Caithness, Canisbay, Happy Little Sigh, happylittlesigh, Queen Elizabeth II, Reverend Alex Muir, Scotland, The Queen, The Queen Mother, The Royal Family on October 19, 2023| 2 Comments »

I have stories yet untold. I suppose I wasn’t sure if they were mine to tell. But some stories deserve to be told, and some people deserve to have their story told, though they cannot tell it themselves . . .

In the far north of Scotland is a castle. A small, elegant, brownish-pink castle–a stone’s throw from the sea, yet bordered by attractive gardens, with sheep-grazed pastures and woodlands beyond. It is called the Castle of Mey, and belonged to the late Queen Mother. Not the Queen who passed away one year agone, but her mother, HM Elizabeth The Queen Mother. She purchased the ramshackle castle in 1952, and set about restoring both castle and grounds. It became her summer home (with another visit every October). Here, she enjoyed the natural beauties of Scotland, and here she entertained guests. I couldn’t tell you much about those guests–apart from one. About one couple’s visits to The Castle of Mey, I know quite a lot. I know, because they told me themselves.

The minister of The Church of Scotland Parish of Canisbay and Keiss, the region of Scotland called Caithness where the castle is situated, was for a time one Reverend Alex Muir, MA BD. To you, just a name, to me a thousand memories–most of which occurred at a modest house in the small Scottish city of Inverness. Again, just a house, just number 14, to me so much more. Alex (retired from the ministry by this time) and his wife, Catriona, were members of our church. They were acquaintances who became, in a matter of no time at all, close friends. Me, a young American, still smitten with Scotland, still lonely from time-to-time, still prone to say the outlandish things that Americans tend to say while on foreign soil. John, a Scot, but not known in the “highlands and islands,” and with much to occupy him in his new position at work. We two just a young couple, trying to find our way in the world.

An afternoon at “number 14” – Alex & Catriona are far right

We were invited for lunch one Sunday–a Sunday that became the first of many–and what a delight to be in the home of new friends. I remember the sunny dining room with a view of Catriona’s colorful garden. I remember the blue, yellow, and green budgies, chirping and flitting about their large cage. I remember the black and white photo of Alex and The Queen Mother, hung on the wall. The story behind that photo came to me in stages over the next few years, on visits to number 14. Oh, I loved to be there, amid the old books, and photographs, and cassette tapes–all the ideas, and stories, and melodies, wrapped up inside. Oh, I loved the smell of Catriona’s fluffy scones just out of the oven. Oh, I loved to chat with their boys (all round about my and John’s age) and to hear the stories Alex would tell. Oh, I loved the love in that place.

Alex, a teacher before his years as minister, was a true Encyclopedia of Scottish history and literature. I remember lending him my CD of Lorena McKennit’s musical rendition of The Lady of Shallot. I rather think that could Alex have been transported to The Eagle and Child Pub in Oxford during the 1940s, he would have joined in with the discussions of C.S. Lewis, J.R.R. Tolkien, and the other Inklings without any effort at all. One day, he presented to me his copy of Mrs. Browning’s Poetical Works, saying that the poet’s hair rather reminded him of mine. But I digress . . .

Literature was not, however, the foremost thing on Alex’s mind. The Scottish Christian revivals of the 19th century–which had transformed so many lives and communities–and church music were the things he spoke about with the most passion. He was a great admirer of American hymnwriter Ira Sankey, composer of Just as I Am, Have Thine Own Way Lord, I Surrender all, and many others. Alex was also an amateur composer and lyricist himself–one who had attracted the notice of The Queen Mother, and in time, The Queen herself . . .

During his years as minister in Caithness, Alex and Catriona (as the parish minister and his wife) were invited to dine at The Castle of Mey on multiple occasions. They came to know and hold great respect for The Queen Mother, and Alex felt quite convinced of her sincere faith in the Lord. One time, she requested a tour of their home, the Manse. Catriona dutifully and I am sure graciously consented. She later told me that when The Queen Mother glimpsed her oldest son’s room, plastered with posters of footballers and movie stars, that she remarked, “All these precious things.” Catriona declared that The Queen Mother always knew just what to say.

The photo from the dining room wall – Alex accompanying The Queen Mother outside Canisbay Kirk

On learning that Alex was musical, The Queen Mother asked him to bring along his guitar on his visits to the castle. He played Scottish ballads, folk music, and his own compositions. There’s a story about her making a request for “The Jeely Piece Song.” It would have been at the castle that The Queen, on one of her visits to her mother, would have first met Alex and Catriona and heard him play. It’s all rather like a Scottish fairytale, castle and all, but the story doesn’t end there . . . The Queen apparently so loved Alex’s beautiful, haunting melody, “Bays of Harris,” that she selected it to be played at her funeral, should she pass from this life while in Scotland–which she did. My heart swelled as I watched the talented Karen Matheson sing the words of Psalm 118 in Gaelic to Alex’s melody. How I wished Alex had been there to see his melody performed for The Queen one last time! Bays of Harris was also used at the funeral of former parliament member Winnie Ewing, in Inverness Cathedral. It was sung there by another famous Gaelic singer, Julie Fowlis.

Alex went to his own Heavenly Castle in 2010, and Catriona followed ten years later. I think of them often. A piece of my heart went to Heaven when they left. But oh, so glorious to know their lives–and Alex’s music–are yet reaching hearts and inspiring lives. I wondered what had inspired The Queen to choose Psalm 118. She was very particular in all she said and did. Every Christmas, The Queen gave a Christmas speech, and without fail, every year she spoke about the Savior. Wise and thoughtful woman that she was, she would have known that her funeral was her last chance to “give a speech,” her last chance to address the world. Years before she passed, she carefully chose every word–from hymns to Bible texts–that would be part of her final day. Could it have been verses eight and nine that she wanted to impress upon the hearts of all who were listening that day?

It is better to take refuge in the LORD

than to trust in man.

It is better to take refuge in the LORD

than to trust in princes

-Psalm 118:8-9

It’s been twenty years now since The Queen Mother passed, a year since The Queen herself–I have confidence that she, Alex, and Catriona are now reunited in their glorious bodies–but their legacies live on. And so will the legacies of Alex & Catriona, for all who knew them, and for all who are touched by Alex’s music–today, and for generations to come.

Bays of Harris, Psalm 118, sung by Karen Matheson, former singer with the group Capercaillie, at St Giles Cathedral in Edinburgh for the Queen’s funeral (sadly, credit was given to the man who arranged the melody instead of to the composer, Alex)

Psalm 63 sung by Clare Ross to Bays of Harris. Clare recorded this piece with Alex in the 1980s. You will hear English at the end.

God Has Given Us a Dream – Hymn and melody by The Reverend Alex Muir, MA BD, sung by singer and filmmaker, Matthew Todd of Fellowship Film

Avonlea xo

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Homemaking Inspiration from Literature ♥

PS Enjoy the story behind the writing of Bays of Harris, including an interview with Alex, below ⤵

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Mr. Darcy is a Red Head – Because Life Doesn’t End with “I do.”

Posted in Beautiful Places, Books!, C.S. Lewis, Inspirations, Jane Austen, Making Memories, Marriage - For Happily Evers, Misty British Isles, Scotland, The Inklings, tagged C.S. Lewis, Eilean Donan Castle, Homemaker, homemaking, Homeschooling, Jane Austen, marriage, Mr. Darcy, SAHM, Scotland, Tea, True Love on May 24, 2022| 8 Comments »

It all began with a cup of tea.

He wanted one.

And so did I.

We were the only ones.

Earlier, on that cold walk through the night to the student flat where a group of us were meeting for a DVD, there were questions about peanut butter (isn’t that what Americans eat?), and secret smiles, and I thought he must be very young.

I was in Scotland.

The world was green, and there were castles, and though I could hardly understand a word of what he said, my red-haired Scottish loon from the village on the sea,

on the pages of my journal I swore I could marry that boy.

And, more to my amazement than anyone else’s, I did.

We moved to Scotland, and life began.

It began. It didn’t end.

Not like the movies or the books, where it ends with “I do.”

No, that was the beginning.

And I went to teaching and he went to working. And meals were cooked, and floors were swept, and a baby came. And although it happened, every few months, that I’d pinch myself and wonder how little me ever ended up there, in the Highlands of Scotland, most of the time it was just life.

And while life was happening, it also happened—as it happens to us all, I think—that somewhere between the tenth time washing the dishes and the hundredth time making the bed, between the hundredth night up with a crying baby and the thousandth time wiping a toddler’s face, that I began to wonder.

I wondered if this was right.

Because this was not how happily ever after was supposed to go.

Castles and Scottish mist aside, I wasn’t supposed to be tired all of the time, and the housework wasn’t supposed to take so long. I wasn’t supposed to get lonely, and we weren’t, no we weren’t supposed find within our hearts such moments of hate that with our words and our eyes and a turning of our backs we would wound each other. Leave each other bruised, starved, and with our very hands widen the cavern between ourselves and God and between each other.

And yet we did.

And the days were dark.

We could have walked, either one of us, in search of our real life. Our real fairy tale. And though we didn’t feel it, we chose to believe it when we heard that the grass is always greener where you water it.

And even yellow grass, or even brown and dry, can become green. But you’ve got to water it every day.

Even when it’s the last thing you want to do.

And you can try to be happy with it just being all right, or so-so, but I’ve got to ask you, like I asked myself, don’t you want the very best?

More than anything, I love to talk of those first days.

The first dance. The first giggle. The first time I dared to touch his shoulder with my head.

Because I know I must remember who he is. Who he really is, deep inside—that boy I first met.

We’re the same people, he and I, deep, deep inside.

Oh, sometimes we’re both still so angry, we’d like to do a whole lot more than spit. And it takes a whole lot more than a little grace to make it through.

But love is not self-seeking.

And real love gets a little less sleep, a little less time for what we want, a little less of what we most love to eat, to make the other person happy. To give them joy. To make them strong.

Never underestimate the power of a smile. The power of a kind word.

Like water to grass, they are spring rain to the soul.

No, life doesn’t end with “I do.” That is where it begins.

For you and your Mr. Darcy.

For me and mine.

Avonlea x

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Happy Little Sigh

Homemaking Inspiration from Literature

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“Love is not affectionate feeling, but a steady wish for the loved person’s ultimate good as far as it can be obtained.”
~ C.S. Lewis

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Narnian Sympathies

Posted in Beautiful Places, Books!, C.S. Lewis, Misty British Isles, Parenting - Raising Wee Men, The Inklings, tagged Avonlea Q Krueger, C.S. Lewis, C.S. Lewis Quotes, Easter, England, Faith, Forever Reign Lyrics, Hillsong United Forever Reign, It Is Finished, Oxford England, Oxford University, Spring Fever, The Cross, The Kilns, The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe Party, The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe Quotes, Waiting for spring on April 19, 2018| Leave a Comment »

Never have I been so glad to see mud. In my garden where there should be grass, clinging to bottoms of my boys’ boots as they climb into the mini van, smeared across the mudroom floor. I’ll tire of it, complain about it eventually, but for now I’m glad for anything, anything but the salt and grit my family tracked into the house over the long months of this cold, drawn-out winter.

Mud, yes, we can see it, now the afternoon sun has warmed the earth. But I awoke this morning to a new layer of snow, and it lingers still–in corners and shadows where the sun doesn’t shine. And so still, we are waiting. Waiting for balmy breezes, and for tender green things to make their appearance. Waiting for color, and an end to this black and white world. Waiting, waiting, waiting for spring.

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The Kilns, former home of C.S. Lewis, author of the Narnia series

And I’m feeling that wait as I clean the mudroom floor, glance out the window at the snow, now grey, littered with twigs and leaves, and pock-marked by the rain. I’m waiting for spring, sure, but also waiting for answers to prayers I haven’t even bothered to pray, waiting for clearly marked miracles and the next bend in the road.

Because all that waiting can make me feel trapped. Trapped, like I’ve been all winter, trapped here rattling around the house with the boys, when most days the temperatures were too low to even get out and exhaust ourselves in the daylight and snow. Trapped in the sameness and monotony, wondering why I do each little thing that I do day in and day out. Stuck with that unsettled feeling that something’s not right, and it’s more than my décor, or how clean the house is, or even how many cuddles I give the boys. Because no matter how I try to make it so, this is not really my home. And no matter how I wish it so, though I know the very end, I don’t know what comes next.

Oxford University, where Lewis taught

And it’s strange how much waiting can feel like fear. Strange how sameness, instead of affirming who I am, can leave me feeling oh, so purposeless, so lost.

I feel lost, but I keep sweeping that mud into a pile, a pile of black dirt I can scoop right up. And while I sweep, I think of Susan and Lucy in Narnia, waiting in the darkness of that almost spring as they watch the Lion leave them hidden in the trees to go forward and face evil. They’re waiting, though they don’t know what for, and they’re frightened because they don’t yet know the ending, or how much they can trust.

And then after, when it’s over–when it is finished–they run to caress him, to free him even though they think he’s gone. And they don’t even know what he’s accomplished, what’s been given–for Edmund and for them. And they don’t know the power he has over darkness, over evil, over death. But for the moment they are waiting, fearing every dreadful probability their minds can fathom. They fear because they’re waiting, and they don’t know what’s coming, though we on the outside, do.

So I remind myself that these times come, and I can’t escape it. In this world we must wait, though our eternity begins now. And even though we know He’s with us in Spirit, we’re not home, not with Him like we long to be. But we know, though Lucy and Susan didn’t, that it’s coming–that being with Him. And we know, though they didn’t, just what’s already been done for us.

Gardens in Oxford University

And in these frequent times of in-between waiting, sometimes the only thing to do is sing. Sometimes when your heart is heavy–with waiting, or uncertainty, or fear–the only thing to do is lift your voice and sing out praises to the One in whose sameness you can always put your trust. Sing it like you mean it, loud and clear. Sing of what He’s done, sing of how He’s won. Sing it till you feel His presence, feel His arms wrapped tight around.

And so I’m singing, and I’m sweeping. Moving boots and wet door mats. Cleaning this floor like I’ll clean it tomorrow, like I’ll clean it the day after that. And though I’m waiting, still I’m smiling.Because it all does matter. This home, and the cuddles, and what we say and do here.

Because He’s here. And He’s returning. And when He does, He’ll really hold us. He’ll hold us and the wait will end.

He stood for a second, his eyes very bright, his limbs quivering, lashing himself with his tail. Then he made a leap high over their heads and landed on the other side of the Table. Laughing, though she didn’t know why, Lucy scrambled over it to reach him. Aslan leaped again. A mad chase began. Round and round the hill-top he led them, now hopelessly out of their reach, now letting them almost catch his tail, now diving between them, now tossing them in the air with his huge and beautifully velveted paws and catching them again, and now stopping unexpectedly so that all three of them rolled over together in a happy laughing heap of fur and arms and legs. It was such a romp as no one has ever had except in Narnia; and whether it was more like playing with a thunderstorm or playing with a kitten Lucy could never make up her mind.

– From The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe

by C.S. Lewis

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